


Something Wicked This Way Comes

by aileenrose



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Action/Adventure, BAMF Castiel, Computer Scientist Cas, Fluff, M/M, Storm Chaser Winchesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-31 00:40:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3957961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aileenrose/pseuds/aileenrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just like every summer, Dean and Sam are tracking tornadoes. Surprisingly, it's the nerdy computer scientist that sweeps Dean off his feet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Wicked This Way Comes

**June**

                Eleven months out of the year, Sam and Dean are in two different states, give or take. Dean can swing for days off around the holidays, and Sam does what he can around school and his internships, but those are the hard facts. Over a thousand miles away from each other most of the time. But they grew up on the road together and that’s where they belong during those four weeks they have in the summer. Back on the hunt again.

                Sammy, who’s only been back for six days, has his sunglasses high on his forehead and a map across his knees when he first brings up Jess.

                “She’s just been, you know. Asking questions,” Sam says to the map, rather than to Dean in the driver’s seat. “Wants to know why I’m back visiting family but I’m not bringing her.”

                “Well, you should tell her,” Dean says.

                “Tell her to come with me?”

                “No, tell her the truth. Trust me, I learned my lesson when I was with Lisa. It’s better to just be honest.”

                “Just be honest?” Sam says. “Wow, never heard that one before. Thanks, relationship guru.”

                Dean pushes the map off Sam’s lap, onto the floor, laughing when Sam says, “ _real_ mature” and leans down to retrieve it and makes his sunglasses slide all the way down to his chin. It’s nice, having Sam back, even if it’s just temporary. Dean’s smart enough to know this can’t last forever. Sam’s got a serious girlfriend now, one who he thinks wouldn’t take the news of his summer job very lightly, and besides—Sam’s almost out of law school. That’s the only reason they kept on doing it together, so Sam could leave debt-free.

                It’s late June, and the air is heavy and hot in Tulsa, Oklahoma. It’s hardly a vacation, at least in the sense of the word that Sam’s girlfriend would like to be riding along with them. Dean knows the real reason Jess hasn’t been told too much isn’t because of the location, but the job. Storm chasing, for all the hype on TV shows or documentaries, isn’t as dangerous as most seem to think it is. Chasers are normally extremely knowledgeable about weather conditions, for one thing—they’re more likely than run-of-the-mill civilians to know the path a tornado might take. That’s why they’re able to track storms safely, from a mile or two away, not just careening around in the elements. Most storm chasers just do it for a hobby—you don’t need a degree (which is what initially drew Dean in) or a license. Just a camera and a way to get around.

                That’s what Dean told his brother to tell Jess, because that was the truth. The almost-truth. Because even though storm chaser casualties are pretty close to nil, Dean and Sam do some things that make normal storm chasers look more like birdwatching hobbyists. Careening around near the path of a tornado is where the money is at for the Winchester brothers. Others prefer to stay farther away, claiming that the distance allows for a better perspective of the tornado, but the Winchesters have made a name for themselves because of the images they’ve captured up-close. Last year, they caught an E-F3 just north of Yankton, South Dakota—it only lasted a few minutes. A stunner. In Dean’s rearview mirror, it looked like the finger of God, pressing down into the land without retribution. Sam had been hanging out the passenger window with the video camera, his hair wet and whipping in the wind, and that ended up being the footage they sold to NOAA for over twelve thousand dollars. Mini-tornados circling the main tornado. Something that those watching from a distance definitely weren’t picking up on. NOAA said they could use it in simulations blah, computer models blah blah—Dean hadn’t paid attention, like Sam did, to the specifics. It was footage that could further understanding of how tornados worked, that could save lives, even as Sam and Dean risked theirs. That, along with the hefty paycheck, was more than enough for Dean.

                Dean doesn’t press the point with Sam, for now. The other truth about storm chasing is that, ninety five percent of the time, there’s nothing dangerous going on for Jess to be worried about. Sam had installed a wireless router in the Impala, somewhat to Dean’s concern, but now they had Wifi so they could keep track of the weather radar, where potential tornado formations might be. So most of the time, they just drive. South Dakota, Nebraska, Kansas—they cut a swathe down Tornado Alley, and stay at cheap motels and eat disgusting food. Sometimes they run into other storm chasers and shoot the breeze. Technically they’re hunting tornados. But it’s not technically a lie, not in Dean’s book, to think of it as something of a vacation.

                They end up at a motel just off the interstate, with NWS playing at low volume while Dean flips through a magazine on the bed. Sam‘s phone rings, and he goes outside to answer it, coming back in an hour later with a sheepish expression.

                “Jess, huh?”

                “Yeah,” Sam says. He flops back on the bed, pillowing his head on his arms. “She said hi. She said she wishes she could see you.” He chews on his lip for a second. “Dean.”

                “Yeah?”

                “Are you gonna be okay with this? When it’s all over? I have to come clean at some point—I mean, I can’t do this forever.”

                “I’ll figure something out,” Dean says.

                “Jess and I—we want to start a family. I can’t be haring across the country every summ—and you can’t do it by yourself.”

                “I’ll figure something out,” Dean says again. He doesn’t think Sam knows how much Dean has waited and worried for this moment. No, he never thought it could last forever. Even if he wants it to, even if he’s already missing these tired, happy moments—transient nights in an anonymous motel room, full from greasy diner food, hearing his brother’s soft breaths and the hum of the radiator,  and the muted TV sending colors flickering over his face as he drops into sleep.

**

                Sam wakes him the next morning, jiggling his foot as he sweeps past with a toothbrush in his mouth.

                “Posheshul sying—”

                “What?”

                Sam rolls his eyes and takes his toothbrush out. “Potential sighting. Just north of here. I checked NWS and the bases are loaded—wind shear, a cool air mass from the North, the whole nine yards.”

                Dean rolls over and checks the alarm clock. It’s barely six. After a second he grunts and sits up, rubbing at his eyes. “All right. Let’s hit the road.”

                Outside, it’s overcast, with a touch-and-go wind that that snaps their collars up against their necks. Dean and Sam look briefly at the high, ominous gray column of clouds to the north.  In the car, Sam’s got his laptop out, perusing SkyWarn while he nurses a cup of coffee. “Okay. Here we go. Someone from the Ozark storm watcher group posted less than ten minutes ago. There was a brief touchdown.”

                “Where?”

                Sam rotates the Mac on his knees so Dean can see the screen. “Looks like it was a field off the service road by I-44.”

                Already, bullets of rain are spattering against the windshield at random. Dean switches the wipers on. “So it’s gone already.”

                “This storm could produce multiple touchdowns,” Sam points out.

                “’Tis the season.” Dean cranks his window up as they pass the telltale eerie wail of the tornado siren. The highway is essentially empty, although they pass a few cars going in the opposite direction. One man even honks at Dean, as if to warn him that they’re going towards the danger, not away. Then again, not many people would peg the Winchesters as what they are just by the looks of their vehicles. The chasers employed by NOAA or the storm tours drive armored SUVS that look straight out of a Mad Max film. Dean likes to make fun of them because, for all their fancy radars and dishes, air cannons and steel plating, the Winchesters and their ’67 Impala almost always get the footage of a lifetime. Even if, after tornado season, Dean has to spend a few months hammering out dents, getting a new paint job, to restore Baby to her best. It’s worth it.

                They end up driving past the field where the initial touchdown was; Sam points out the news crew vans through his window. There’s a long furrow cutting diagonally across the ground, at least fifteen feet wide, but they can see where it abruptly ends.

                And, parked on the side of the off-ramp not even five minutes later, Dean and Sam hang out their windows watching the wall cloud in front of them, pregnant-bellied, slowly rotating.

                “Think we found ourselves a winner,” Dean says, but Sam can’t hear him over the wind. Five minutes pass. Another five. And then, almost like a funny trick of the light, a tendril of cloud seems to detach itself.

                This is almost always Dean’s favorite part. He likes the adrenaline, Baby’s engine screaming down side roads, Sam hooting, “Holy _shit_ , _holy shit_!” like the Kansas boy he pretends not to be now. But this part, the calm before the touchdown, when the funnel seems as fragile as a wish or a prayer—it’s like watching it come to life right before his eyes. The funnel cloud grows longer, slinks to the right a bit, starts curving towards the ground. Already, the top is muscular, dark, but as it progresses it’s still wispy, gathering power. Gently, hesitantly, it reaches for the ground—

                Dean ducks his head back in; so does Sam. His brother’s smile is huge.

                “Holy _shit_ ,” he says.

                The Impala roars to life. The wipers are flying now, sluicing the hard spattering rain from the windshield, as Dean roars up the on-ramp on the other side, back onto the highway. Out Sam’s window, the tornado’s almost a mile away, easily visible in the flat land of the fields; dirt and debris is lifting up into the air, feeding into the funnel. Sam’s steadying his camcorder in his hand.

                “It’s moving northeast,” he says. “We can cut it off at the next overpass, drive in front of it to get our angle.”

                Dean doesn’t have to answer. The radio’s futzing out so he jams one of his tape recorders in. AC/DC blares through the speakers as they rocket down the highway. Sometimes they’ll see the other storm chasers, too, careening down the slick highway—the number one way to get hurt on the job—but today it’s just them and the road. And the tornado, fattening in size as it sucks up debris outside Sam’s window. It’s not the biggest Dean’s ever seen—probably an E-F2—but still. It’s a chase regardless.

                They get off at the next exit. Dean maneuvers the car down a rural two-lane, bypassing the odd cars that are out in the storm.  Technically they’re in the path of the tornado now, Sam facing it head-on with the camera, although they both know it’ll fizzle out soon. It’s already gone a mile, and luckily there had been nothing but fields in its path. It’s still drifting to the northeast, and Dean’s running out of road to head it off unless he wants to start driving through a corn field.

                “Look,” Sam says. “It’s already starting to decay.”

                Dean hazards a look. The tornado has already almost played itself out; growing slender, twisting like a dark rope. It’s not the most powerful or stunning tornado Dean’s ever seen. But he still keeps his eye on it until a gust of wind veers the Impala right of the line a little, drawing his attention away so he can center the vehicle.

                “There it goes,” Sam says. Since there’s no one on the road behind him Dean slows to a stop and watches with Sam—the dark gray cloud descending like a foggy curtain, enveloping the funnel bit by bit until—it was gone. Disappeared. The storm rages on but the tornado is gone, nothing left to see but the clean path sheared for almost a straight mile and a half across the fields. Dean could look down it like looking along the sight of a gun. For a long moment they just look, and Dean can finally feel it when his heart stops pumping so hard, when he’s aware that his shoulders feel tight and he loosens them.

                “Anything good?” Dean asks.

                Sam sat back and rolled up the window. His arm is wet from holding the camcorder out. “Maybe,” he says. “It wasn’t anything spectacular, but you know.”

                “Know what?”’

                “We’re the Winchesters,” Sam says. “Someone will want this footage.”

                Dean snorts and hits the gas.

**          

                There are only a handful of people who can benefit off a tornado the way the Winchesters do. Some of the storm tour owners make bank. Warren Faidley is world-renowned for his photography; he’s so good there’s no competition. For the Winchesters, even a fairly tame video of an E-F2 leveling through a field can still net them seven hundred dollars from the local news. Not bad for just an hour’s work.

                Back in Tulsa, they end up at a bar near their motel, nothing out of the ordinary until Sam looks towards the door and stiffens.

                “Crap,” he says. “Dean, isn’t that Crowley?”

                Dean looks over his shoulder at the doorway and rolls his eyes, downing the rest of his whiskey in one go. “Speak of the devil…”

                Crowley is the owner of the biggest storm chasing tour company in Tornado Alley. There’s a million of them—they’re like cockroaches—but for some reason Crowley’s Hellscape Tours nets the most clients. They’ve run into him over the years in various states, Crowley’s SUVs in a caravan on the highway, with tourists packed in like sardines, paying thousands of dollars in the hopes of seeing a tornado. On principle, Dean hates him, if only because jamming the roads with a bunch of sightseeing tourists seems to be antithetical to normal tornado safety methods. Crowley’s approached them at least once every summer, trying to get the Winchesters in the fold. Crowley’s team employs a few meteorologists, some practiced storm watchers—that betters Crowley’s odds of finding the tornados—but of course he wants the Winchesters, too, so he can have a monopoly of the whole business.

                “Well, well, if it isn’t Moose and Squirrel.” Dean turns in his bar stool and grimaces.

                “Heya, Crowley. Still out chasing those dust devils, huh?”

                “Don’t mind if I do, thanks,” Crowley replies, and wedges himself into the bar stool next to Dean. “Saw you boys caught some action today. Cheers.”

                “Thanks,” Sam says wryly. “Were you out there today too?”

                Crowley holds up two fingers for the bartender. “No, actually. We were in Enid. But the weather reports look promising for more heavy storms here tomorrow, so I’m keeping put with my fingers crossed.”

                “We?” Dean repeats. Over the years he’s met a few of Crowley’s employees. The only one who really left an impression was Meg, one of Crowley’s drivers, who suggested that the Impala might be overcompensating for something. Sam joked later that he could hear Dean’s teeth grinding together.

                Crowley waves a hand behind him, at a loud group just walking in through the door. “Oh, you know. The whole crew. We’re anticipating a busy few days, we have some new faces, I’m graciously allowing them all to get drunk on my tab. Care to join?”

                “Still not working for you.”

                “Touchy,” Crowley sniffs, and slides off the barstool. He’s almost immediately replaced by the clamor of his employees, bellying up to the bar, leaning over their shoulders to order.

                “What are you sons of bitches even _doing_ here,” Dean says aloud, petulantly, to no one in particular.

                “We had to come to a dive bar,” a low voice says, very close to Dean’s ear, making him startle. He swings around.

                “What?” He barks out. Then he sees the man standing not even six inches away, wearing a suit and tie and trenchcoat like a complete fucking dweeb, watching Dean with a level of intensity that’s already doing strange thing to Dean’s stomach. In a more normal voice, he says, “I mean, what?”

                “Crowley’s service put his customers up in one of the nice hotels here in town. He didn’t want us to run into them, so he suggested something more out-of-the-way.” Dean still isn’t following that well, but now it’s because the man’s lips are very close to his own, and very distracting.

                “Right,” Dean says after a moment. “And you are?”

                “Cas Novak,” the man says. He sticks out a hand for Dean to shake. Dean tries to discreetly wipe his palm off on the edge of the bar before taking it.

                “Cool, I’m D—”

                “Dean Winchester, I know of you and your brother,” Cas says plainly.

                “Okay,” Dean says. “Does Crowley really talk about us that much?”

                “No,” Cas says. He turns away then, to grab his beer from the bar and slide a five dollar bill onto the counter. Dean turns to share an exasperated look with Sam but then sees that Sam’s stool is empty; he’s deep in conversation with some beanpole in a FOX 25 News windbreaker. When he looks back over at Cas, the other man is hesitantly perched on the bar stool next to him, like he isn’t sure if he’s welcome to stay.

                “Care to elaborate?” Dean says.

                “On what?”

                “How do you know about us?”

                Cas pauses to take a sip of beer, then wipes his lips on the inside of his wrist. “I work at the Storm Prediction Center in Norman.” At Dean’s blank look, Cas says, “It’s connected with NOAA. You guys sold a video of an E-F3 to them and it got passed my way.”

                “You a meteorologist?”

                Cas shakes his head. “I’m a computer scientist. With the data from your video, I’m hoping to develop a simulation program that can help predict tornados with better accuracy.”

                Although Dean heard the people at NOAA say something similar, he doesn’t remember being at all interested _then_. Maybe it’s because he hadn’t been told that Cas, with his flipped-around tie and his tousled dark hair, would be crunching algorithms in an office somewhere.

                “What’s a computer nerd doing out here with Crowley?” Dean says. Cas gives him a narrow-eyed look at the _computer nerd_ part, so Dean bumps his shoulder. “Data analyst, whatever.”

                “It’s a win-win,” Cas says uneasily, like he heard the term from someone else. “SPC isn’t funding me, but I’m able to test my program in the real world, and Crowley gets credibility by saying that someone from SPC is connected with his company.”

                “But with _Crowley_? That guy’s a douche. You probably signed away your soul and you haven’t even realized it yet.”

                Cas shifts in his seat. “Yes. Well,” he says stiffly. “It’s what I decided to do.”

                Well, maybe Dean shouldn’t be lecturing him in the first place. Cas is a big boy. _Jesus Christ, why was he calling him a big boy_.  He signals for another.

                “Uh, sorry,” Dean says. “Anyways. How’s it been working out for you so far?”

                “Okay,” Cas says. “There isn’t room for me in the fleet, so I have to set up a mobile office in every city. It’s normally just me in my hotel room. It’s not bad, I just don’t get to see the tornadoes that way.” He studies his beer bottle, picking at the condensed-over label. “I’ve never seen one.”

                “I thought you said you’re in Norman?” Dean asks. He’s pretty sure he’s tracked a storm or two through there.

                “Only recently. I lived in Illinois up until last year, so all of my work has been purely hypothetical.”

                “But still important,” Dean says. He lifts his glass and clinks it with Cas’s, and then feels his face heat up as Cas doesn’t take a drink from his own beer—instead, he watches Dean with a considering tilt of his head as Dean  tilts back his drink, his lips against the glass, his throat bobbing. He jumps when a hand comes down on his shoulder, interrupting his weird staring match with Cas.

                “Hey,” Sam says. “I’m heading back to the motel.”

                “Sure, yeah,” Dean says. Sam’s eyes slide over, to Cas, and Cas nods solemnly at him.

                “Hello,” Cas says.

                “How’s it going,” Sam says. “Are you coming, Dean? Or…just give me the key if you’re staying out…” Now he’s looking between the two of them a little awkwardly. Dean quickly pushes his stool back.

                “No worries. I’m ready to go,” he says. He feels the whiskey hit him as soon as he’s on his feet; he sways right into Cas’s space (Cas’s fault, though, because Cas is suddenly standing up too)—“Whoa. Catch you around, Cas.”

                “Good night, Dean,” Cas says. He nods to Sam, and then—before the Winchesters even have a chance to leave themselves—he’s slipping off into the crowd. Dean wonders if Cas is offended by the abrupt end of the conversation, but shrugs it off. It couldn’t be helped.

                “You know, you could have just given me the motel key,” Sam says, stepping up next to Dean. “I didn’t want to interrupt...whatever that was—”

                “Oh my God, shut up,” Dean says. Sam just reaches into Dean’s jacket pocket—Dean lets out an indignant “ _hey_ ”—and comes up with the car keys.

                “I’m driving,” Sam says. “You’re skunked.” Dean, demoted to the passenger seat, sulks the whole way back.

**

                Dean wakes up in the morning with a headache and a craving for coffee. He checks the muted Doppler on TV—scattered showers, nothing imminent—and pulls on some pants over his boxers before leaving Sam still snoring in his bed.

                There’s a diner within walking distance of the motel, all retro tiling and laminated, un-proofread menus. Dean lives for these kinds of places. He’s sitting at a booth, texting Sam to ask if he should bring anything back for him, when the bell over the door chimes. He gives a cursory look up and then gapes a little longer, because it’s Cas trudging through the door, sans trench coat, suit and tie—Cas, with ruffled bedhead and a pillow crease still across his stubbled cheek, wearing a loose t-shirt and frayed jeans. Even as Dean watches, Cas lets out a huge yawn, only belatedly bringing up his fist to cover his  mouth. Dean can’t help himself; he lifts an arm and waves to get Cas’s attention.

                “Hey,” he says. “What’s up, man? Wanna come sit down?” He gestures to the booth across from him.

                Cas’s face shows nothing in the way of recognition. “Coffee,” he says, gesturing over to the counter.  His voice is even deeper than it was last night.

                “Sure, yeah,” Dean says, pushing his carafe across the table hopefully. Cas tracks it with his eyes. “Come sit down, we’ll ask the waitress for another mug.”

                Cas shrugs and slips into the cracked vinyl seat across from him. In the morning light, Dean can see now that Cas’s eyes are very, very blue, even if they currently narrowed down with sleepiness. Dean signals for the waitress hastily.

                “Late night?” Dean asks. “Don’t worry, I’m feeling a bit under the weather myself.” He laughs. “Get it?”

                Cas cocks his head. “Get what?”

                “Under the weather,” Dean says. “Uh. Just a joke.”

                “Oh, like a pun,” Cas says. After a few seconds of processing and analyzing he cracks a small smile at Dean. “That’s funny.”

                Dean should _not_ be feeling all warm and gooey just from that. He clears his throat. “Anyway, you gonna get yourself anything to eat?”

                “Maybe,” Cas says, but he doesn’t look at the menu Dean slides over for him. “How are you doing otherwise, Dean? Today’s storms are supposed to be very dangerous.”

                “I’ll be okay,” Dean says. “Sam and me’ve seen much worse.”

                “You and Sam,” Cas says slowly, like he’s thinking. “Where is Sam?”

                “Still getting his beauty sleep,” Dean says. He nudges Cas’s foot beneath the table. “Why? Want his autograph?”

                At that moment, the waitress arrives, thankfully bearing a mug and a place setting for Cas. “Can I get you anything to eat?” she asks. Cas shakes his head, already reaching for the cup.

                “No, I don’t want his autograph,” Cas says to Dean, looking confused.

                “Never mind,” Dean says. Cas is frowning at him over his coffee, so Dean adds,” You’re just the first person who’s ever recognized us. Storm chasing is a small community. Out in the real world, people don’t know our names. Hell, Sam’s girlfriend still doesn’t know—people like you and Crowley might have heard of us—” Cas shifts uncomfortably in his seat—“ But we’re your regular Joes to everyone else. And I’m fine with that, really.”

                Cas takes a slow, blissful sip of his coffee. “You put your life at risk, getting data that can save others, but no one outside this small community would ever know it. That doesn’t bother you?”

                “Nah,” Dean says. He rubs his finger through a ring of condensation on the table. “This—this is just me, for one month out of the year. I get no sleep and I eat junk and I live life on the edge. _This_ Dean gets all the recognition he wants. But the other eleven months a year—well, that’s a different Dean than the one you’re seeing right now.”

                “Different how?” Cas has a concentrated furrow in his forehead like he thinks Dean is trying to pull one over on him.

                “Wouldn’t you like to find out,” Dean says, winking, and nudges Cas’s foot under the table again, just to make the flirtation as obvious as possible.

                Cas leans back in the booth and squints into the gloom beneath the table. “Something keeps hitting my foot,” he says.

                “Oh my God,” Dean mutters, just as the bell chimes over the door and Sam comes in out of the rain, scanning the diner hastily.

                “I _knew_ I’d find you here,” Sam says accusingly. He rounds the corner and sees Cas, sitting with his hands cupped around his mug and an expression of mild interest. “Oh, hey again.”

                “Hello, Sam,” Cas says politely.

                “Hey,” Sam says. “Look, we have to hit the road ASAP. The storm’s moving in and it’s a _monster_ —the mesocyclone’s over four miles wide, the air pressure’s—”

                “So basically it’s a tornado party today,” Dean says. He stands up and drains the rest of his coffee in one gulp. “Okay. You drove over here? Everything’s loaded up?” Sam nods twice. “Cool. Let’s go.”

                “Wait,” Cas says. He awkwardly clambers out of the booth to come to stand with them. “Be careful. Even without the tornados, there’s the potential for flash floods and heavy hail today.”

                “Yes, mother,” Dean says, rolling his eyes, and Sam fights down a smile before saying, “Will do,” clapping Cas on the shoulder as he walks towards the exit.

                “Dean,” Cas begins—

                “Listen, I’ve done this too many times to count,” Dean says. “We’ll be fine. Hey. Give me your number, I’ll call you later and let you know how much fun it was.”

                Cas hovers by Dean’s shoulder and slowly dictates his number to Dean, which cements Dean’s hypothesis that he could listen to Cas reciting binary code and still keep Dean’s attention. He clears his throat and pockets his phone.

                “Thanks, man. I’ll be touch.” He salutes and walks quickly out into the rain. He’s still congratulating himself on getting Cas’s number when he slides into the Impala and right into the sightline of Sam’s knowing smile.

                “What?”

                “Did I interrupt something?”

                Dean fiddles with the knob on the radio. “Can it, Sammy.”

                “What? Why won’t you just admit it?” Sam says, laughing.

                “Because we’ve been together day and night for a week now, you already my shitting schedule, so I’d like to keep your big, fat nose out of just _one_ thing, if you don’t mind.”

                “I don’t mind,” Sam says easily. “In fact, I’d like to talk to him some more. He’s a computer scientist with NOAA—?”

                “Yeah, he’s a weird, dorky little guy,” Dean says. “Never even seen a tornado before, actually.” He shifts the Impala into drive and looks over at the diner for a second. The rain is blurring his view in but he can still make out Cas’s dark head, his gray t-shirt, the oval of his face turned towards the window. It’s probably Dean’s imagination that something in his posture seems to be wistful—oh, well. Cas has his own job to do, too.

                Dean pulls a wide U-ie, gunning down the street and into the heart of the storm.

**

                The first hour is pure boredom. Dean mostly just taps his thumbs on the steering wheel along with the music, watching the greenish-hued sky, Sam muttering in the passenger seat as he pores over his Mac.

                Every radio station is regularly blaring meteorologist updates and tornado alerts, but so far no funnel has actually struck and stuck. Dean squints into his rearview, trying to see if the sky behind them seems to herald anything, and that’s when he sees the procession of cars a half-mile behind them.

                “What the—” He says. He adjusts his rearview mirror and looks closer. He doesn’t need to see the words, tiny from here, emblazoned along those stupid-looking armored SUVS. “What is Crowley doing over here?”

                Sam doesn’t even look up from his Mac. “He needs to find a tornado, keep the customers happy,” he says. “I bet we’re all driving in the same circle.”

                “You’re probably right,” Dean says. But then, two exits later, heading west to get on top of the storm, he sees the trail of cars still behind them. “He’s just trying to be sneaky about following us,” Dean says aloud. “Son of a bitch, he’s trying to jump our route!”

                “Dean—”

                “Refuse to work for that prick, and what do you get, he uses you anyways—”

                “ _Dean_ ,” Sam says. “One just hit 51, south of us. It flipped a car off the road.” His fingers fly across the keyboard. “And another one, not far behind it. This is multi-vortex. Radar’s blowing up; they’re dropping all over the place.”

                “Okay, okay,” Dean says. He cranks the windshield wipers up another notch. “So let’s avoid a core punch if we can and—”

                “That one’s growing,” Sam says. “Topping 35 MPH, it’s not on the highway anymore but it is heading towards Broken Arrow.”

                Dean punches off the fuzzed-up radio. It’s raining so hard he can’t even see where the tornado might be, not to mention they’re both aware an E-F3 (if not higher) is about to rip through a small town and there’s nothing they can do about it. There’s nothing they can ever do about it. But they can try to catch up with it, to document it, although Deans’ pissed off he has a tail of camera-happy tourists happily toddling in their wake. When this is done, he’s _so_ going to wring Crowley’s neck.

                “There it is,” Dean says suddenly. He lifts his finger off the steering wheel to gesture at the dark column that suddenly became visible out of Sam’s window, south of them, moving away from them and towards Broken Arrow.

                “Get off here,” Sam says. There’s an exit quickly approaching.

                “Okay,” Dean says, but he makes no move to get into the right lane.

                “Dean?”

                “One second.” Keeping an eye in his rearview, he sees that Crowley’s fleet has moved closer, probably trying to keep the Impala in its sights now that the rain is affecting visibility. “Hold on, Sammy.” He swerves across the median at the last moment, just as the exit is diverting from the highway. Crowley’s cars don’t have time to get off, too; as he watches they zoom right past.

                “Now we don’t have to worry about babysitting—” Dean says, as he merges onto the two-lane road, and then he chokes off. “Sam, why does it look like that tornado is heading right towards us?”

                Sam’s face is a pale mirror of his own. “The wind turned it around,” he says. “That hardly ever—”

                Dean swerves around in a quick half-circle, taking off in the opposite direction. “Goddammit.”

                “It’ll be fine—”

                “It’s not _fine_ , we’re stuck on a two-lane with no exits in sight, and a tornado eating up ground right behind us—”               

                Sam doesn’t say anything. The Impala shudders as a gust of wind slams against the side, pushing her towards the side of the road.

                He pulls his phone out of his pocket and tosses it towards Sam. “Call Cas. Let him know we’re in the path of the tornado and make sure Crowley’s tour isn’t anywhere nearby.”

                Sam fumbles with the phone. “It’s ringing,” he says. He cranes his neck to look behind them. “Go faster, come on.”

                “I can’t go any—” Dean snarls back, and then a branch as thick as a tire smacks into the road in front of them. Dean doesn’t even have time to think; he quickly brakes and veers to the side, throwing his arm across Sam’s chest as he does so. The Impala shrieks, followed by two loud thuds, and then he feels himself tipping towards the side, half in Sam’s lap.

                “Shit,” Dean says. He scrambles back into his seat. The Impala is half-tilted into the ditch on the side of the road, and Dean knows after frantically twisting the key into the ignition twice that she isn’t going to be moving out of it anytime soon. The engine whines as he tries to reverse, mud flying up from the tires.

                Sam’s eyes are wide; he doesn’t even try to say anything. He clambers out of the driver’s side door after Dean and they stand together in the wet road, shielding their eyes against the pelting rain. Dean points. There’re no houses in sight, nothing but patches of trees, tussling fields, and an abandoned-looking barn, roof sloped in, in the field across from them.

                Dean can feel the mud sucking at his ankles as they run through the field towards the barn. The wheat stalks whip against their shins, and small pieces of debris are pelting them at a sideways angle, but above all of that is the tornado, looming large behind them, churning closer and closer. Wider than a football field; wider than two put together. Dean knows if he looks back again he’ll see how it blots out the whole horizon, so he doesn’t. He pants through his nose and scrambles after Sam and he can’t let himself look back.

                One barn door is hanging open, rocking in the wind, and the brothers pile in together and immediately slam it shut. Dean looks wildly around. The place is barren, moldy hay covering the ground, slats of wood missing from the sloped-in ceiling. The wind is almost just as loud. Dean can hardly hear himself think.

                Sam’s running his fingers through his hair in agitation. “Jesus,” he says. “Dean, what do we _do?_ ”

                Dean opens his mouth, then closes it.

                “I—we’ll be fine,” he says. “Look, we’ll wait it out, now that we have shelter—”

                “Yeah,” Sam says, gesturing around hysterically. “In a place that is the _definition_ of being knocked over by a good gust of wind. Jesus. _Jesus_.”

                Dean brings his hands up to his forehead. Just a few minutes ago, it had been sketchy but they’d been in the Impala—how’d it go wrong so fast? There’s a sick, twisting feeling in his stomach, and Dean can’t hear anything but the howling in his ears, but that might be the sound of the tornado, minutes away from dragging them into its vortex—

                “I never even got to call Jess,” Sam says. He’s not even looking at Dean, he’s talking wildly as he scrabbles at his pockets. “I must’ve lost my phone in the field. She never even knew—who’s going to tell her?”

                A loud _thump_ resounds outside, and then another one, and another one. One piece of hail, large as a dime, comes skittering through one of the holes in the ceiling. Dean moves away from it, closer to the center of the room.

                “Sam,” he says. “Sammy.”

                “How’s she gonna know?” Sam whispers.

                A series of loud bangs, now against the door they came through, and Dean and Sam turn to face it, backing up, and suddenly the door flies open and Dean moves to stand in front of Sam, ready for the door to come hurtling from its hinges, or a face-full of debris, the goddamn tornado itself—

                It’s Cas. Trench coat dripping wet, hair plastered down against his forehead, wiping rainwater from his eyes impatiently.

                “There you are,” Cas says. “We have to get out of here.”

                For once in his life Dean doesn’t have a smart comment to make. He turns to his brother just in time to see his brother’s mouth pop open, soundlessly staring.

                “Dean, Sam,” Cas says. “We don’t have much time.”

                “How’d you get here?” Dean finally croaks. The barn doors are now flapping wildly against the walls, loud abbreviated thumps, on either side of the doorway, framing Cas like a pair of wildly fluttering wings. “How’d you even find us?”

                “I’ll explain later,” Cas says shortly. He jerks a head behind him. “Please, let’s go.”

                Sam nods, closing his mouth, and quickly moves past Dean, towards the door. Dean follows in a daze, watching as Sam claps Cas on the shoulder with a trembling hand. Outside, the wind is sending the grass in waving furrows of motion, and everything seems to be in shades of gray. It’s almost like Dean’s ears are stopped up; when he turns to look at the tornado he can’t even hear the wind anymore. He just sees it, easily a half-mile wide, looking close enough to touch.

                They run across the field, stumbling and sloppy in their haste. The clouds are roiling overhead. They run with their arms over their heads, hail bouncing down all around them. Parked on the verge of the road, headlights on and still running, is one of those ugly armor-plated SUVs. It is suddenly the most beautiful sight Dean’s ever seen in his life. And that’s even before he draws even closer and sees the hitch lock sticking out from beneath the rear back bumper.

                “Cas,” he says, stopping.

                Sam’s got his hand on the passenger handle. “You have got to be kidding me!” He roars over the wind. His hair is wet, strands of it flying into his mouth. “ _Do you want to fucking die_?”

                “What?” Cas says. Sam throws up his hands, cursing loudly.

                Dean’s never moved faster in his life. Once Cas backed the SUV onto the verge, he and Sam flew into action. Dean slings the A-frame tow hitch from the Impala’s trunk and quickly lays it out between the SUV and the front of the Impala, swinging the arms into place.

                “Come on, come on, come on,” Sam is shouting. Dean can feel his heartbeat in his fingers as he slides the hitch into place. “Let’s go!”

                Dean turns and runs right into Cas, who’s back out of the SUV and looking at the sky behind Dean. It’s like he hadn’t had time to even notice it until now;  face uplifted, rainwater running unheeded down his face, he looks absolutely awed.

                “‘Whatever is in any sort terrible, is a source of the sublime,’” Cas says reverently. “I finally understand what it means—Dean, it’s _beautiful_ —”

                “Yeah, you contain multitudes, buddy,” Dean says, and ushers him to the backseat. “Watch from here. I’m driving.”

                Cas climbs into the back without complaint. Sam’s already in the passenger seat, buckled and antsy, when Dean throws himself behind the wheel and puts the car into drive. The SUV grinds for a moment, shuddering, and then pulls the Impala free from the mud. Dean pulls out wide onto the road and then straightens it out and then grits out, “ _hang on_ ,” before he floors it.

                He has to keep both hands on the wheel, fighting to keep it straight. The Impala is rattling behind them, jerking in the wind, and they all jump when a chunk of hail the size of a golf ball collides with the windshield, leaving a long, spider-webbed crack. Debris is flying past them in undulating waves, forming dark scribbles in the air of twigs and leaves and gravel. Sam’s leaning his head on the passenger side window, watching the tornado in the side mirror.

                “Oh,” he hears Cas breathe out. He can’t tell whether that means something good or bad.

                “Talk to me, man,” Dean says. “How’d you find us? How’d you know?”

                Cas’s voice is muffled, turned away towards the rear window, when he answers. “Crowley lost you on the highway and he realized you were headed straight for the tornado. Then I got a call from you and I knew you were in trouble.”

                So the call did go through. “But how’d you find the Impala?”

                There’s a short beat of silence from the back. “Well,” Cas says slowly, “Crowley had me put a tracking device on the Impala, the other night when you were in the bar. It’s how he keeps the fleet together, in case one of the SUVs gets lost.  He wanted to be able to follow you guys on the chase.”

                Sam and Dean don’t say anything.

                “It was only supposed to be for this one chase, while you’re in the same town,” Cas says, now a little nervously. His voice is suddenly much closer; he’s leaning forward between the two seats, talking right into Dean’s ear. “It’s the only way I was able to find your car—and looking for you in the barn was just an educated guess—”

                Something thumps down on the roof of the car, making them all look up.

                “If we get out of this,” Sam says lowly, “I will personally kiss Crowley for putting that tracking device on our car.”

                “We’re getting out of this,” Dean says tersely, and flexes his fingers around the steering wheel. Up ahead, there’s an overpass and the service road turn-off necessary to merge onto it. He can hear the roar of wind, all around him like they’re in a vacuum. They’re almost there. Sam lifts his head from the window and watches as they come closer and closer to the turn-off. With a colossal squeaking of hinges, and the Impala skidding on the road behind them, Dean barrels onto the ramp. Then there’s nothing but the churning of the wet road beneath the tires.

                A minute passes. Then another. Finally, Dean braves a look into the rearview. Past Cas’s wind-ruffled hair, past the Impala,  he sees the tornado. Still churning straight line down that two lane, farther away from them than before, and receding with every second. They are safe. They are alive.

                Dean lets out a long breath he didn’t know he was holding, and after a moment punches on the radio.

                “—Stay in your homes, go to the basement or an interior room with no windows—”

                “—Winds topping 45 MPH—”

                Somehow, they’re alive.

**

                When they get back to Tulsa, parked outside Cas’s hotel, things start moving pretty fast. Sam stumbles out and leans against the SUV for a moment before saying, “I really need a phone. I need one _right now_.”

                Dean goes back to the Impala, thinking to find his own phone from when he had Sam call Cas—God, that seems like years ago—and he’s still sifting around underneath the passenger seat when he looks up and sees Cas giving Sam his own cell. It’s hardly out of Cas’s hand by the time Sam is walking away, dialing a number.

                By the time Dean does find his phone, Crowley is suddenly there, with a small crowd of bemused clients, gesturing impatiently at the Impala.

                “Look, I was nice enough to loan Cas one of the cars but chop chop—there’re other tornados to catch and I can’t do that with this dinosaur dangling off the back.”

                So Dean starts unhitching the Impala, and Cas is talking to Crowley on the sidewalk, and Sam is leaning against the wall of the hotel, with a hand over his eyes, saying, “ _Jess,_ Jess baby, nothing’s wrong, I love you, I love you—”

                Cas comes to stand next to Dean while Dean’s putting the tow hitch in the trunk, looking critically at the pockmarks all over the black paint job. The hail really did a number on her.

                “You know who spies on people, Cas?” Dean says. “Spies.” But there isn’t much heart in it, and Cas doesn’t say anything.

                “You’re a crazy fucking lunatic, driving out into a tornado on the off-chance Sam and I weren’t put through Mother Nature’s friggin’ blender—what do you have, some hero-martyr complex?”

                Still Cas doesn’t say anything. Finally Dean looks over at him and sees that Cas still looks like he just put his finger in a light socket—a face of wonder and bemusement.

                “I have so much adrenaline,” Cas says. “I’ve never felt anything like it before. Look at my hand, see?” He shows Dean how his hand is finely trembling. Dean takes a step closer; into his space. “What do you do to get rid of it? What am I supposed to do with this much ener—” Dean gives him a meaningful lift of his eyebrows and circles his fingers around Cas’s shaking hand.

“ _Oh_ ,” Cas says.

                Five minutes later, they’re in Cas’s hotel room. Dean has Cas pressed against the door, a knee parting Cas’s legs, while he scrapes his teeth over a tendon in Cas’s neck. Cas is trembling even more now, fingers climbing up the back of Dean’s shirt as he moans into Dean’s ear.

                “Please tell me you’ve got something, Cas,” Dean whispers.

                “Something,” Cas repeats slowly, like he’s trying to get his brain back online. Dean hides a smile into his shoulder. “Some—Dean, in my duffel, I have lube and some con—”

                He breaks off as Dean starts kissing him again.

                Cas watches from the  pillows while Dean nimbly zips through the contents of his bag. As soon as Dean happens upon the right pocket, Cas starts wriggling out of his jeans. By the time Dean’s zipped the bag up again, Cas shirt is on the floor and his boxers are quickly following. He looks so pleased with himself, flushed and naked on the bed, that Dean can’t stop himself from leaning over and kissing him again.

                And again. And again. Even with all the adrenaline, the need sparking in every nerve, the most important thing is kissing the corner of Cas’s mouth as slowly jacks him off, kissing Cas’s shivering stomach as he works a finger into him. He’s kissing down the line of Cas’s hipbone while Cas mindlessly grinds down on his fingers, gasping at the pleasure of it. He’s kissing the insides of his thighs with the slightest edge of teeth, and then he’s kissing Cas there, right alongside his fingers, until Cas is pulling on his hair and inhaling on a breath that seems to go on forever.

                And then, happy and more turned on than since he can remember, Dean slicks on a condom and presses into him, tight and hot and good, and slowly fucks him. Cas is sinuous and boneless, rolling his hips easily with Dean, his legs slung over the crooks of Dean’s arms. He’s already come but he’s sighing with Dean, looking at him with something like awe, something like reverence, and Dean doesn’t want that look to stop.

So—even with the adrenaline, even with the need sparking in every nerve, Dean fucks him long and slow and sweet until Cas’s sighs turn into something more urgent. There’s nothing in that room but him and Cas and the sounds of their bodies coming together, faster and faster, and he leans down and kisses Cas until Cas is shaking beneath him, coming between their stomachs. And Cas holds Dean tight against him as Dean finally comes, too, lifting Cas’s hips off the bed and flush within him.

                In a state of complete lethargy, Dean allows Cas to position him on the left side of the bed and drowses while the shower runs. Afterwards, Cas comes out in a robe and wipes Dean’s stomach with a wet hand towel.

                “Room service,” Dean mumbles. “S’nice.”

                Cas slides back into bed with him. “Will you stay?” It’s only one in the afternoon. Dean should probably be doing something productive. The Impala won’t fix herself, and who knows where Sam is—

                “Can I?”

                “Of course,” Cas says. He presses a soft kiss to the meat of Dean’s shoulder.

                Dean stays.

**

                Dean wakes up later that evening to see Cas sitting up against the pillows, a newspaper in his lap and the TV on. Dean rolls over to watch, too, and sees a news reporter standing in front of the mangled remains of a house.

                “—After a category E-F4 blew through here earlier this morning, we’re told that entire mobile homes were lifted from their foundations, trees torn from their roots—”

                “Dean,” Cas says. “Your phone has been going off.”

                Dean fumbles off the bed for his jeans, finally finding his cell phone in the back pocket. There are two missed calls from Cas, and four texts, which confuses Dean until he remembers that Cas gave Sam his phone to call Jess.

                “It’s Sam,” he tells Cas. He scootches into the middle of the bed so his side is pressed against Cas and starts scrolling through the texts.

                _Can’t find you anywhere, I’m assuming you’re with Cas. Does that count as sticking my nose into your business?_

_Going back to the motel. I called Jess and told her everything._

“He told his girlfriend about the storm chasing,” Dean tells Cas, still reading through the texts. “She’s upset with him, but mostly because he was hiding stuff from her, not because of the chasing. Ooh, ouch. She said it’s not a good foundation for a relationship if Sam doesn’t tell her important things because he’s afraid of her reaction.”

                “It’s better to just be honest,” Cas says, a little bashfully, because he’s probably thinking about the tracking device on Dean’s car. Dean lets it slide.

                “That’s what I always say,” Dean says. “That’s what happened with my ex, Lisa. I hid this part of my life from her because it seemed like they were two different things, but that meant I was cutting her out every time Sam and I hit the road in June. It wasn’t fair to her.”

                “What’s the other Dean like?” Cas says. “The one who doesn’t go storm chasing.”

                “Oh, him. Well, he’s a mechanic in Lawrence, Kansas. Pretty boring dude. Likes to keep his lawn well-mowed, poker night with his friends on Saturdays, bar karaoke on Thursdays.” Dean laughs. “See? Boring.”

                “What else?” Cas says.

“He’s a fan of the Royals. Sometimes he goes to the games with his uncle Bobby.  At the very least he drives to Kansas City once every month to have some _real_ barbeque.”

                “What kind of barbeque?” Cas asks. He actually sounds interested.

                “Oh, you know. Gates. Oklahoma Joes.”

                “I thought you said you went to Kansas City.”

                “Oklahoma Joes is just the na—” Cas is wearing a pleased smile again, like he just told a hilarious joke. “You’re trying to fuck with me.”

                “I am,” Cas says. His eyes are crinkling at the corners. Dean still has his thumbs hovering over the screen, about to text Sam back, but first he presses a quick kiss to Cas’s mouth. “Now I’m hungry. Are you?”

                “Very,” Cas says.

                “Why don’t we throw on some clothes and meet up with Sam to—” Dean stops. On the television, catching his eye, a video is playing. It’s pretty shaky, grainy, like it was filmed on a cell phone. From what Dean can tell, it’s being filmed through the back window of a moving vehicle. It shows a long black car being pelted by hail as it’s towed down a two lane road. Past that, there’s the dark menace of the tornado, and even as Dean watches he sees this decrepit-looking barn being blown apart, sucked back in. The newscast plays it again. The barn splintering apart from the wind, the debris lifting up and feeding into the dark bulk of the tornado.

                “Cas,” Dean says quietly. “Is that—?”

                Cas doesn’t have to look at the screen. “Crowley wouldn’t cheat his paying customers out of a tour unless he thought something better could come of it. He gave me an SUV because I promised I’d film whatever I saw, and he knew where I was going.” Right into the tornado. To Sam and Dean.

                “This is a video sent to us by Fergus Crowley, of Hellscape Tours,” the voiceover says, as Dean watches the barn disintegrate again. “Due to a highly erratic, unpredictable storm cell, this is the same tornado that was heading southeast towards Broken Arrow until it abruptly changed direction and went right through Claremore. The destruction in Claremore—” Dean reaches across Cas’s lap for the remote and switches the TV off.

                “Is everything okay, Dean?” Maybe. Not really. Crowley probably made bank off of a video that wasn’t even his. Dean can only guess how much the news network would pay for a sight like that. Not to mention he’s getting free advertising for his stupid storm chasing tour—but no. That’s not why Dean feels so strange right now.

                “I’ll call Sam back in a little while,” he says. “Just give me a minute.”

                “Okay,” Cas says. He still looks a little worried. “Dean, are you—”

                “I’m fine,” he says. He pulls the covers up over their heads and pulls Cas’s body tight against his. It’s still there. The adrenaline, the need, the feeling of being alive. He runs his hand down Cas’s side, ribs, hips, thigh. His voice comes out wondering. “I’m fine.”

                Cas’s hand soothes down his back in the dark.

**

**November**

“What time is the appointment again?” Jess is hopping on one foot, trying to slide her high heel on.

                “Four thirty,” Sam says. “And dinner at six—I put the reservation in your parents’ name, by the way, because I think they’re getting to the restaurant first.”

                “Fine,” Jess says. She sounds a little distracted. “This venue better work out, I swear to God—”

                Planning for the wedding has been hard, what with Jess’s erratic schedule at the hospital and Sam’s long hours at the firm. There was also that weird spread of weeks in late June, after Sam came home, and they had to talk seriously about just what he’d been doing every summer since they started dating and before. Jess had still been pretty shaken up from Sam’s call, when he’d been panicked and almost unintelligible beyond that he loved her and he was sorry. To his credit, Sam loves her and he’s still sorry.

                The latest venue is almost right on the beach. Floor to ceiling windows look out over the waves, and the room is airy and bright. While the wedding planner talks seating capacity and price, Sam reaches out to take Jess’s hand.

                “What do you think?”

                “What do _you_ think?” she says. He takes her other hand and pulls her closer, resting his chin on her head.

“I can see us just like this, slow-dancing. The band will be in that corner over there. This door will be open so we can smell the breeze coming in off the ocean—”

“You’re a sap,” she laughs into his chest. His phone vibrates and he lets go of one of her hands to reach for it.

“It’s Dean,” he says.

“As your best man, Dean needs to friggin’ RSVP already,” she mutters. After a moment she says, “What did he say?”

Sam is smiling down at his cell phone. “Cas must be visiting him again,” he says. He turns the cell around so Jess can see the picture of Dean and Cas, arms slung over each other’s shoulders, matching smiles, in front a huge golden sphere. There’s a sign to the right of them.

 “World’s largest ball of twine,” Jess reads aloud slowly. The phone vibrates again. “Dean says, ‘I’m with two wonders of the world here in Cawker City, Kansas.’ Are they for real?”

Sam laughs. “They are very for real.” He smiles fondly at the picture before putting his phone away again.

The wedding planner is standing courteously to the side. “What are you guys thinking?” she says.

“I think we’ll take it,” Jess says, squeezing Sam’s hand. “Also, let’s talk seating charts. I know we haven’t heard back yet, but our best man is bringing a plus one…”

Jess starts walking across the hall, gesturing to where she thinks the head table should be—holding her hand, still smiling to himself, Sam follows.                               

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone living in Tornado Alley, hope you're staying safe!  
> I have to say my research was inconclusive as to how fast it takes to hitch a car. Maybe entirely unrealistic, but I decided that Baby deserves to live.   
> Thanks to all!  
> paperclothesline.tumblr.com


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